


Rode Hard

by reapertownusa



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-22
Updated: 2013-08-22
Packaged: 2017-12-24 07:23:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,476
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/936992
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reapertownusa/pseuds/reapertownusa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean, Gordon and Victor work out some excess post hunt energy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rode Hard

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: Not so much - just some restraints and roughness.
> 
> Author's Note: Very random AU written very quickly for salt_burn_porn (ergo the complete lack of...anything sensical) to wendy's scrumptious prompt rope burns.

Bed springs squealed in time with the thrusts. Below the steady rhythm were guttural groans, shameless and claiming. The pent up energy of a car ride two hours too long and a post hunt high that had gripped them by the balls and wouldn’t let them come down.

The legs of the bed pushed deeper into the packed dirt floor. The rat-infested cabin was mostly standing, wood weathered, but not rotted. Good enough. They hadn’t been looking for the Hilton. This was nothing more than the first safe harbor with four walls they happened to hit. Four walls and a bed, that was. 

The tarnished bed frame was simple. It had seen better days, but they all had. With its open slots, it was far more useful than the fake headboards of most motels they frequented. 

A draft danced over Gordon’s skin. It was cool against the sheen of sweat that accompanied his quickening breaths. His pants were tight, his swelling cock ached for a turn to exorcise the last waves of adrenaline, but for the moment he was satisfied to lean against the doorframe and admired the view. 

The bare bulb dangling from the cabin’s ceiling laid Victor’s shadow over Dean where the hunter was spread wide over the stained mattress. There was enough light to see the forming bruise blossoming over bare skin where stone had impacted tender flesh. 

The large, deepening red blotch would be a decent purple by morning when Dean would be bitching about how they should have listened to him. Maybe next time. For now, they were following the only tried and true method to shut up a Winchester. 

Dean’s knees were beneath him, thighs tensing and toned calves flexing. Nails jammed with dried blood and graveyard dirt clawed at the mattress’s faded blue flower print. Dean gripped the edges tight as he thrust his ass up to meet Victor. Skin slapped loudly, audibly slick in the otherwise still night. 

Dean’s layers had been stripped away, littering the ground between the door and the bed. Victor had been too busy undressing Dean to get out of more than his jacket. His black dress jeans, still too new to show any wear at the knees and white button t-shirt now stained with gore were blaring reminders that there were only two true hunters in the room. 

The man didn’t have it in his blood, didn’t need the kill in his soul and was still naïve enough to think what they were doing made a difference. Gordon still had to give it to Victor. The man could handle himself in the heat of battle. More impressive yet, he could handle Dean. 

Gordon idly twisted the fraying end of a small length of rope he held looped over his arm. The natural fibers were rough and damp from the weather. He’d found the rope draped over the porch’s woodpile begging to be put to good use. 

It was time to step in when Dean’s hand slipped between his legs. His fingers didn’t find his aching cock before Gordon snatched his wrist, twisting his arm. Dean’s eyes shot open, blown pupils trying for a glare, but only managing to roll up as Victor hit the sweet spot. 

Gordon gathered up the pliant wrists, looping ropes tighter than necessary to hear Dean’s groaned protest. He loosened them slightly before making his knots, still too tight to escape but loose enough to allow circulation and, better yet, friction. The burn would be the least of what Dean would be feeling in the morning. 

Gordon jerked the end of the rope hard, pulling Dean’s elbows from beneath him and face planting him into the mattress. Victor’s grip dug into Dean’s thighs, clutching possessively to ensure Dean’s ass remained where he needed it. He shot Gordon a look, promising a slow, ugly death if Gordon cut in before he was finished. There was no need to worry. Victor knew as well as him that there was plenty of Dean to go around. 

Gordon leaned in and reached beneath to flick the bobbing head of Dean’s defenseless cock. Victor chuckled along with him as Dean simultaneously swore death threats into the musty mattress and jutted his hips forward, begging for more.

“You’ll wait your turn and like it,” Gordon said. 

Never had truer words been spoken. Gordon had learned the hard way that all the rope in the world couldn’t hold Dean if he didn’t want to be held. It was all part of the game. 

The old bed protested louder as Gordon climbed on to straddle Dean’s bound arms. He kneeled over them, positioning himself before unzipping his grungy jeans. His ready cock sprung free. The need grew urgent, being so close to his target. 

Dean’s eyes were closed, but his lips parted. His tongue darted out to wet them, waiting. He didn’t have to ask twice. 

With a needy grunt, Gordon took the invitation and slid himself into the wet heat. Dean took over, working his tongue with slow, torturous strokes. It was Dean’s idea of payback for not being let to get off, but Gordon was a patient man and the careful attention was far from punishment. 

It was Dean who grew impatient with the casual pace. His movements fell in line with the pace Victor was riding him. He moaned around Gordon’s cock, swallowing him down further as he was pushed forward. Victor arched back, raking his nails over Dean’s shoulders as he came hard. 

The heat swelled in Gordon’s groin as he watched the reddening welts rise over Dean’s scarred skin. He pushed in deeper, demanding more and Dean provided, lips tightening as they dragged over Gordon’s shaft. 

Victor remained half draped over him, breaths still ragged as his hand stroked over Dean’s back. Victor was a closet cuddler, but so was Dean when he was worn down so it worked out all right, especially because, when he was in his right mind, Victor could be every bit as wicked as Gordon himself. 

Victor’s hand snaked down, doing things to Dean Gordon couldn’t see, but could feel vibrating through his cock. Beneath him, Dean’s wrists twisted against the rope. Dean tried to pull back, to deny Gordon what was being withheld from him, but unlike Dean, Gordon didn’t have to put up with it. 

He clutched Dean’s head and took what he wanted, shivering at the rush of Dean’s panted breaths struggling past him. Dean’s head tipped back far enough to glare up at him through hazy eyes, but Dean’s tongue betrayed him, still doing its job through the staged protest. It was enough to push Gordon over the edge.

The wave of release barely settled before Gordon slid off the bed. He tucked himself back in as he walked away. Usually he’d pull up a chair, but there was only the bed so he folded his arms over his chest and leaned back against the wall. 

He didn’t give a flying fuck whether or not Dean got off. That was Victor's job. With him here, Dean got the attention he craved while Gordon got to watch him squirm. Every once and a while, he even tried to understand. Because that’s what hunters did, they studied their prey.

It was a funny thing. Living with Dean twenty-four seven was like with living with at least three different people, disjointed pieces of a whole that never quite aligned. 

There was the smart ass, the killer and that man lying bound on a rickety bed now. That Dean rolled over onto his back and spread his legs just because he was told to. Any other place or time, giving Dean an order was just as likely to result in a punch to the face. 

Even in his pliant state, Dean still cursed things that would make a sailor blush. His chest heaved, back arching as Victor gripped his cock and rubbed his thumb over the glistening head. A few more strokes and Dean’s arms strained against the binds as he spurted out over his taut belly. 

Gordon would've left him there until morning, at least waited until the come had dried over chilled skin because Dean pissed off was a beautiful thing. But Dean hadn’t even come down before Victor was cutting the ropes, exposing the reddened wrists. 

Victor held Dean's wrist as if the slightly irritated skin was something in need of tending. And Dean, the hunter who would stuff his organs back in right before swearing he was fine, laid there and let Victor fuss over him like a damn mother hen. 

With the ache of his back and the weariness finally settling into his bones, Gordon gave up on trying to understand. That gentle touch was his cue to find another room to hole up in for whatever was left of the night.


End file.
